𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, cobain

prologue.

          "WE SHOULD HEAD back," Ash urged as dusk settled solemnly over the forest, his fingers loosely circling my fragile wrists.

"Scared?" I teased with a smirk, slipping easily from his weak grasp. I pushed ahead, determined feet parting the undergrowth, branches scraping past as strands of moss brushed the crown of my head. I was stubborn, headstrong—a child chasing adventure, unwilling to yield to reason.

"Mom'll be mad if we're late," Ash muttered behind me. "We're so far. What is it?"

"Just look." I stopped before a shimmering, dappled river, its surface glowing under the gentle fall of leaves. My chest lifted with a soft, dreamy sigh. This place had become our refuge—the spot we returned to as children, seeking shelter from the storm of our parents' fights.

"Let's go!" my father once shouted, frantically stuffing my ribbons, shoes, and dresses into a single trunk, Ash's belongings hastily thrown in too.

"Dad!" I'd cried, protesting. I was twelve, used to their constant bickering, but never had it exploded like this.

"It's what's best," he choked out, eyes red-rimmed and wet with exhaustion. He adored us—I knew it—but the guilt of letting us witness such chaos was devouring him. "You kids deserve better. I deserve better."

"Andrew," my mother murmured from the doorway. "This is your solution? Take my kids from me?" She crossed the room quietly, wrapping an arm around me.

"You're fucking crazy," my father barked, his breath ragged as he forced the trunk shut. "We need to go."

We never made it to the airport that night, though his threats of leaving became a regular fixture as their arguments deepened. They fought over my mother's erratic behavior, which only worsened as time went on. She wandered the house in her nightgown, slurring drunkenly to herself, whispering to invisible figures long into the night. In the mornings, she brought those voices to the breakfast table.

"Did you hear Mary last night?" she giggled, tipping vodka into her orange juice. "She's something, isn't she? Sorry if we were loud."

Ash and I exchanged uneasy glances as our father buried his face in his hands. "There is no Mary," he sighed. "You're imagining things. And please, not in front of the kids, Louise."

At his attempts to pull her back to reality, she'd retreat further, eyes going glassy, empty. She'd light cigarettes and let them burn down to her fingers, ash drifting to the floor.

Eventually, the diagnosis came: schizophrenia. It explained her drifting, unsettling presence. I always knew my father only wanted to protect Ash and me, but his desperate methods bred resentment in my heart.

Their battles finally led to separation in '92, the divorce finalized by April of '93. My father had had enough—watching the woman he once loved unravel had hollowed him out. My mother stayed in California while Ash, my father, and I moved north to Washington, closer to my father's family. By my sophomore year, I was already applying to local universities, resigned to leaving San Francisco. I accepted the move almost impulsively, afraid the divorce would widen the gulf between my father and me.

The divorce had torn a jagged hole in my world, and I missed my mother every day. I imagined our once vibrant, lively house now sunken in hushed, faded tones—the happy memories packed away in its creaky floorboards. Even amid the chaos, we were still a family. We still loved each other.

In Washington, I often thought back to those days in the forest with Ash. Through everything that came at us, all we really had was each other. I wondered sometimes: what if my mother had gotten proper treatment? What if we'd never left for Seattle, if I'd never met the Cobains, if Ash had never slipped into the abyss of addiction? What if none of it had spiraled out of control?